Sweet Black Waves

by Kristina Perez

  Tristan pursed his lips. Nothing evaded his notice. She folded her hands together in her lap, unable to avoid rubbing her blemished palm. She wanted to tell him about her abilities but she was afraid—afraid she would repulse him. Branwen forced a smile and he resumed his attempts to curry favor with the princess.

  “What are you playing?” Tristan asked her.

  “Fidkwelsa. I’m sure it’s far too complicated for a pirate’s mind.”

  He laughed. “I’m familiar with Little Soldiers.”

  “I suppose that’s an accurate description of the Kernyvak military.”

  “They call fidkwelsa Little Soldiers in Kernyv?” Branwen asked, trying to keep the conversation civil.

  “Yes, King Marc taught me,” he said, angling his shoulders toward her. “He’s a fanatic.”

  “In fidkwelsa, the queen is more important than the king,” Essy said snidely. “He’s only her lowly manservant.”

  “That is often the case.” Tristan grinned, and Branwen knew that grin was for her. She raised a hand to conceal her own smile. “But the king can still take the queen with one move,” he said.

  There was a sneaky maneuver known as the Western Gambit in which a king could seize his opponent’s queen. It was hard to accomplish but Branwen relished the challenge.

  “Well, I suppose you’re the expert at taking queens against their will, Prince Tristan,” said Essy. “In fact—”

  An enormous billed bird landed with a thud on the mast, distracting the princess. The beast bellowed, making a hideous racket, but it didn’t sound like a bird, more like a bleating lamb. Branwen gasped. The creature from Branwen’s dream. She fought the sensation of salt water clogging her airway.

  Rustling its night-colored feathers, the creature stretched its wings and settled onto its perch. From tip to tip, the bird’s wingspan was larger than a toddler. The crimped skin of her heart line tingled.

  “Oi! Off with you!” Captain Morgawr hollered, charging the bird from the helm. The creature stared at the hulking Kernyvman, impassive. Branwen took some comfort that others could see the bird, that it wasn’t an Otherworld illusion, yet the sound filled her with dismay.

  Morgawr gritted his teeth and drew his sword, rattling it in the air. “Cursed kretarvs!”

  Essy raised her eyebrows. “Kretarvs?”

  The captain didn’t respond at first, keeping his eyes fixed on the winged beast. It seemed to Branwen that Morgawr and the bird were having a staring match. Her heart rabbited. How could she have seen this kretarv in her dream when she didn’t know it existed? The beast dug its talons into the mast. They were as big as a woman’s hand and looked deathly sharp.

  “Carnivorous seabirds,” Tristan explained quietly, but Essy pretended not to hear him.

  Morgawr swiped the underside of the kretarv’s belly with his blade and the animal let out another grating cry before taking flight. The lament sounded almost human. The princess visibly shuddered. Morgawr touched the antler he wore around his neck to his lips, then using two fingers, he made two diagonal slashes in the air that intersected.

  “You hale and sound, Lady Princess?” the captain asked, sheathing his sword and walking over to them. “Lady Branwen?”

  “We’re fine, Morgie,” Tristan assured him. Branwen didn’t feel particularly hale. She brushed her knuckles lightly across the curve of her neck. She had thought the nightmares of Keane were guilt, plain and simple. What if it was something more?

  “Never should have set sail so close to sundown,” grumbled the captain. “Unlucky.”

  Tristan shook his head, lifting his shoulders with a kind smile, and twirled the fishing pole against the grain of the deck. Branwen knew precisely what he was thinking. “Your prince doesn’t believe in luck, Captain,” she told him, composing herself.

  “My lady, I would die for my prince,” he replied. He toyed with the mangy end of his beard. “But in this matter, young Tristan is misguided. Kretarvs on the mast are an ill omen.” He clutched his antler shard.

  Essy rubbed her hands over her arms, hugging herself close. “Why do they make that wretched noise?” she asked.

  “They’re predators, Lady Princess,” Morgawr said. “They mimic the call of whichever prey they’re after. Maybe they’re hunting for comely Ivernic maidens today.”

  Essy laughed nervously; Branwen didn’t respond. In her dream, she’d sensed the kretarv waiting to make a meal of her. Her mouth grew dry as Keane’s invisible hand tightened the ribbon around her throat.

  The captain bounced his eyes between them, making sure he had their full attention. Branwen got the impression he was the kind of man who enjoyed telling stories at the tavern. “Many a seaman has been lured up to the deck by the light of the moon, sweet nothings from his ladylove being whispered in his ears. And then—”

  Morgawr slapped his hands together like the crack of a whip. “The kretarv swoops down, grabs the careless mariner with its talons, and dives back into the depths below with a tasty treat in tow.”

  “That’s not true,” Essy protested, curt and prim.

  “’Tis so, my princess. But we’ll keep you safe.”

  Tristan dashed a glance first at Essy, then at Branwen. “Very safe,” he said.

  Again, Essy ignored him. Branwen knew he would try—but how could Tristan protect her from a creature that stalked her dreams?

  The captain straightened up, recognizing that he’d frightened his audience a little too well. “Better go see about finding us another tack,” he said, and returned to the helm.

  “Lovely weather we’re having,” Tristan said to Essy, restarting the conversation. His efforts to befriend her were tireless.

  Languidly, she turned her gaze on him. “Yes, lovely weather for a nap. I’m suddenly quite tired. Your presence is quite tiresome.”

  Branwen opened her mouth to reprimand her cousin but Tristan caught her eye, asking her to let him handle it. They had grown well versed in each other’s expressions.

  “Princess Eseult,” Tristan implored. “We are to be family—cousins. Is there nothing I can do to make us friends as well?”

  Across the deck, Branwen noticed Cadan watching them as he mopped. She had learned the boy was an orphan, like her. There were far too many orphans along the coasts of the northern seas.

  The princess pushed to her feet, regaining Branwen’s attention. “Prince Tristan, I have no family save Branwen—nor will I ever. And you and I will never be friends.”

  Before she or Tristan could respond, Essy had fled the fidkwelsa board and rushed down the steps toward the royal compartment. Tristan sighed, and Branwen read the distress on his brow.

  “You’ll win her over—eventually.” Discreetly, Branwen placed a hand on his knee beneath the table. “You did me.”

  The creases above his eyebrows instantly disintegrated. He covered her hand with his own. “At least we get a moment alone.” Branwen scrutinized the crewmen going about their daily tasks. “As alone as possible,” Tristan corrected himself, flashing her a wicked grin. Heat flared from their entwined hands. She saw him wince, almost imperceptibly, and snatched hers back.

  Had Branwen almost seared Tristan like she had Keane?

  Tristan edged his stool closer and cupped Branwen’s cheek. “You’ve gone pale.” His dark eyes glowed with concern. “Does your injury pain you?”

  “It’s healing,” she said, tone clipped. She feared her injury might pain him.

  “Then what is it?” He trailed his thumb along her jaw. “You’ve been skittish since we set sail. Are you homesick?” Tristan’s lightly callused fingertips made Branwen’s body liquefy. His touch banished the dread that constantly held her in its grip. At least for a little while.

  “When we reach my homeland, I’ll take you to my favorite spot in Monwiku. You’ll love it,” he promised. “You can see from there to forever.”

  “I’d like that,” Branwen said. Here, in the vastness of the sea, she could already see forever. She was so insig
nificant by comparison. The flat surface made her ill at ease.

  “Tristan,” she began, hesitant. “Do you think the kretarv is a harbinger, like the captain said?”

  He chuckled. “Sailors love to tell tales. Is that what has you rattled?”

  Branwen seesawed the squire on its square. She’d wanted him to laugh it off, to tell her there was no such thing as waking nightmares. Still, she shifted on her stool, unsettled.

  “But the ship has hardly moved for days,” she countered.

  “We’ll get there, Branwen. Trust me.” Tristan attempted a placating smile. “We’ll get to Kernyv, peace will be secured, and then—” He curled one of Branwen’s midnight locks around his finger. “Maybe you’ll finally relax?”

  She blushed deeply. “Maybe.” She grazed her hand over the center of her chest. The Loving Cup was fastened securely against her heart. Like in a game of fidkwelsa, Branwen knew she had the winning move. Perhaps Tristan was right, perhaps she could afford to let down her guard.

  He held her gaze and it took more than human strength to withstand the pull of his lips. Desire pulsed between them. Branwen imagined they glowed like an orb of sunlight. Tristan twisted and untwisted the strand of her hair, then coughed into his hand.

  “Shall we finish your game?” he asked, pointing at the gilded pieces Essy had abandoned.

  If they stayed this close together, thighs practically touching, Branwen might do something hasty. “Would you mind checking on my cousin?” she said.

  Tristan quirked the corner of his mouth. “As my lady commands.” If Branwen didn’t know he was such a gentleman, she might interpret the lip twitch as a sign of exasperation.

  “Wish me luck.” He stood, collected the fishing pole, and saluted her as if she were sending him into a wolf’s den armed with only his wits.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in luck?”

  He spread his hands. “I’ll take what I can get.” Tristan cast Branwen a look that was somewhere between hungry and forlorn as he headed belowdecks. A look that nearly made her abandon all restraint. The sea was like Kerwindos’s Cauldron, Branwen mused, neither Iveriu nor Kernyv. Out of time, out of place. Under other circumstances, she might savor the freedom of being … nowhere, everywhere. Especially with Tristan.

  Not on this journey. They needed to reach Kernyv as soon as possible. Her mission depended on it. Consumed by her thoughts, Branwen rose from her seat and scanned the skies for any lingering kretarvs. Queen Eseult had said her memories of the in-between would return. Could she have seen the lethal creatures during the spell? What exactly did they portend?

  “Lady Branwen,” said Morgawr as she joined him at the helm. His eyes crinkled as he greeted her. “Not fretting over my story, I trust.”

  “I was curious—do you see those birds often?”

  The captain peered at her sidelong. “Often enough.”

  “When you chased it away, you made this sign—” Branwen repeated the two diagonal lines. “What does it mean? Does it frighten kretarvs?”

  Morgawr pivoted to face her. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he lifted the antler pendant with the other. “I wear this as a reminder of the Horned One’s sacrifice. He died so another might live. I invoked his protection.”

  “And the sign?”

  “You know how he died?”

  “Tristan—Prince Tristan told me. Impaled.”

  Morgawr nodded. He cut the air with his fingers. “This represents the stag’s antlers,” he said, and Branwen felt queasy. “It was a painful death, but a good death.”

  “Prince Tristan also said your god is called the Lord of Wild Things. Is the kretarv not one of his creatures?”

  The captain lowered an eyebrow and Branwen instantly regretted her question. “The Horned One sees the best in all of his creatures, believes we’re all capable of redemption. I’m just a man. I’m not so forgiving.”

  “Oh.”

  He barked a laugh. “Are you without faith, my lady?”

  “I believe in the Old Ones.” She stuck out her chin.

  “Faith is faith, I suppose. You pray to your gods and I’ll pray to mine that we make this crossing safely.”

  Fear pebbled Branwen’s chest. “Are we in danger?”

  Morgawr’s gaze slid over the side of the hull. A fresh scowl gripped his face.

  “See there, Lady Branwen…” He motioned toward the water. A dark shadow—shaped like the kites Branwen used to race along the Ivernic coast—darted terribly fast in the wake of the ship. She curled her hands into fists.

  It’s not Keane. It’s not.

  “Sharks know when a storm’s coming,” the captain said. He mumbled something low in Kernyvak that must have been a curse. Raising his voice, he called out, “Storm! Storm’s coming!” At Morgawr’s bellow, Cadan and the other shipmen immediately stopped what they were doing and scrambled to secure the rigging.

  Branwen swung her gaze from the murky shape pursuing them to the endless blue sky. “There isn’t a cloud in sight,” she said, confused.

  “That’s when the worst storms hit, my lady. The ones you don’t expect.” A worried gleam appeared in his deep-set eyes. “And on Samonios Eve. Unlucky, unlucky. Better get yourself below. Tell the prince and princess to stay put.”

  Branwen turned to comply with his order. Hesitating a beat, she asked the captain, “Why do you call it the Dreaming Sea?”

  His mouth twisted as he appraised her. “All sailors are dreamers. Otherwise, we wouldn’t live our lives fate-tossed by the waves. Sometimes we find what we’re looking for. Other times, we just get lost.”

  Branwen felt her stomach plummet. A wave broke against the hull and her knees buckled. Bunching her skirts in her fists, she righted herself.

  “Hurry to your cabin, Lady Branwen,” urged Morgawr. Taking in her wan complexion, he added, “Never fear, I haven’t lost a ship yet!”

  If the Dragon Rising perished, it was much more than a ship that would be lost. She felt for the Loving Cup once more. Racing down the stairs to find the princess, Branwen couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—didn’t want them to reach Kernyv.

  THE BITTERNESS OF THE SEA

  RAIN LASHED THE SHIP FOR three days as if the Old Ones themselves were crying before a lull came in the waves. Branwen held the princess in her arms as her pallor turned from moon white to pond-scum green and back again. Essy muffled her whimpers in the curve of Branwen’s neck, seeming genuinely afraid of the storm.

  Fate-tossed, Captain Morgawr had called them, like the verse from Étaín’s song, which seemed a fitting description. Yet, unlike her cousin, Branwen found the storm invigorating. She sensed the lightning before it struck, almost as if the flames inside of her called to those that speared the sky.

  Tristan had checked on Branwen and Essy every few hours during the worst of the squall, although he ignored the captain’s command to stay belowdecks. He wanted to be with the crew, battling the storm. He wasn’t built to let others risk themselves while he hid from danger. Branwen also thought he looked frustratingly handsome with his curls dripping dark drops from the torrential downpour.

  “This infernal rocking is making me sick,” Essy moaned, peeling away from Branwen in the bed they shared and flopping her head against the goose-down pillow. She rubbed circles against her forehead.

  The swaying motion had become familiar to Branwen, comfortable even. She suspected it would be more difficult to find her feet again on land.

  The princess released another lengthy sigh. “Is there any more of that elderberry wine?” she asked.

  “I don’t think wine will make you feel any less sick.” Branwen ruffled Essy’s hair. “Shall I read to distract you?”

  “No more false love stories,” replied Essy. The despondent tint to her words tugged at Branwen’s very core. So often she’d wished her cousin would abandon the romantic foolishness of the Ivernic ballads. Yet the princess’s resignation was even harder to stomach. Every fiber of Branwen�
��s being itched to reassure her cousin that she would soon know true love.

  The princess closed her eyes and gripped the bedcovers as if she could stop the ship from rocking through sheer force of will.

  “Do you remember that rhyme Master Bécc taught us, Branny? From Armorica—a land that hates Kernyv as much as we do.” When she didn’t reply, her cousin recited, “L’amar de la mar est amare.”

  “The love of the sea is bitter.” Branwen snorted. “Very funny. Master Bécc isn’t fond of boats.” Although he did love puns in the Aquilan language.

  “The Armoricans have as much right to be bitter about the sea as we do.”

  But Branwen wasn’t bitter about the sea. The sea had brought her love. The sea had brought her Tristan. She turned onto her side and stroked Essy’s furrowed brow. One of her earliest memories was of watching the princess sleep in her cradle. Then, like now, her cousin seemed so vulnerable. So delicate.

  The ship lurched suddenly and Branwen knocked against the princess, bashing her nose.

  “Oof, Branny!” she complained. Essy’s eyes lit with mischief. Something Branwen feared she wouldn’t see again. “So that’s how you keep your nerves so steady!” The princess reached forward with greedy fingers, trying to wrest the golden vial from between Branwen’s breasts. “Is it Clíodhna’s dust?”

  Branwen slapped her hand away, panic bursting in her heart. She had loosened the bindings of her underclothes while they were huddled in the cabin. Too much, it seemed. She flattened her palm over the Loving Cup. How much longer could she keep it a secret?

  Essy scrunched up her face. “It’s not nice not to share—especially when the world won’t stop spinning.” She pressed a hand dramatically to her brow.

  “On second thought, a thimbleful of elderberry wine might quell your nausea.”

  “No. I want whatever you’re having.”

  Branwen recognized her younger cousin’s stubborn face. It was the same one Essy wore as a child, refusing to leave the table without another slice of apple cake.